


Goodbye, Myself

by galacticakagi



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Diamond & Pearl & Platinum | Pokemon Diamond Pearl Platinum Versions, ポケモンマスターズ | Pokemon Masters
Genre: Backstory, Drabble, Friendship, Gen, Internal Monologue, Pasio (Pokemon Masters), Past Relationship(s), Soliloquy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29782464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galacticakagi/pseuds/galacticakagi
Summary: Cyrus stands at the edge of a cognitive precipice, reflecting on Sophocles' words and his interred past with Rotom. Will he continue along the path to plunge Pasio whole into the dolorous void of his despairing heart, or shall he at last dare take those first, tremulous steps to an altogether distinct turn?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Goodbye, Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [An_Uninspired_Heap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Uninspired_Heap/gifts).



> I'd like to thank Gio for inviting me to this platform and giving me a push to publish some of my written work, after I lost my confidence as a writer. I crafted this work a few months ago, originally meant for the Pokemon Masters anniversary contest, and have sat on it since (the rules forbade its publication until the end of the contest), taking a long hiatus from writing altogether until this day. I've thus decided to dedicate my first ever posted work on AO3 as a testament to Gio's kindness and friendship. Thank you. - Akagi «𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢, 𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢»

“I can’t stand the thought of a world like that! Because. . . if we all lose our human spirit, I can’t become friends with you, Cyrus!”

Those words. 

No matter how much he sought to forsake the guileless boy who desperately spake them unto him, their resonance pierced the black veil of that moonless night, shaking the Galactic wretch to the core of his very soul. . .

Silent, he’d sought shelter in the shadows of Pasio’s simulated wilderness, retreating from the chaotic scene upon the Champion’s victory. Her mere Kommo-o (once a hatchling, raised with utmost care) trouncing the legendary might of Palkia – the great beast who willed primeval space into form – with offensive ease. How could it be possible that he, who wielded Palkia’s might as if t’were his own, should see himself swept by something as fundamentally ill-conceived as these “bonds of spirit;” his dream, like a fanciful sandcastle wrought to life by the crude architecture of a child, fated to be torn down by the roiling of her storming sea? 

Yet, he cared not for the Champion, nor her soporific justifications of the human spirit. Though all of Sinnoh waxed poetic on the subject of Cynthia, he envisioned her a fool. Stubborn and blind to the true nature of the world, the so-called Champion’s heart was beyond his understanding. No, ‘twas not her words which shackled his wearied conscience like a spectre, though he vaguely recollected her threat to “bring him to justice” should he dare unfurl his dream anew, even if the ache of blackened despair guided whole his errant ambition, a twisted North Star flickering the way forth to his New World. . .

No, he’d trod the spurious earth of Pasio’s winding trails in reminiscence of but one being in this ignoble world.

“Rotom.”

So much time’d elapsed ‘tween his doleful present and the allocated sentiment of his Sunyshorean boyhood, the sole speck of warmth and colour in its gloom being in those days spent alongside his ethereal companion, a perfect pair traversing along the summertime sea as dawn sprawled in dulcet pink across the misty sky, dispelling from his sullen sight the last of obsidian night’s uncertainty as waves crashed mightily ‘pon a landscape of sun-bleached sand. Oh, how mischievously they’d elude sleep on those late nights, seized by manic excitement as they laboured on bringing their latest dream machine to life --- through Rotom’s exceptional abilities, in more ways than the figurative!

Ah, if only he’d envisioned too a time machine, one to take him back to that time of dreams and hopes, which now live on but as faded memory-film at the heart of him. . .

The idyll of his past with Rotom – yes, a secret part of him yearned a return to the sunlit garden which engendered that beautiful beginning, when first he set startled sight on the animated lawn mower which’d birth the creature’s moniker henceforth: none but he understood true the origin of the disyllabic heteropalindrome (“’Motor’ and ‘Rotom’ – surely, the link is obvious?’) He’d jotted those words long ago, the leaden script immortalized amidst the frayed pages of an old notebook he accustomed journaling in as a child.

Yes, Rotom’d set its azure gaze upon his sallow, frightened form, and for the first time in his life (save for the brief reprieve of time spent in the company of his grandfather), someone favoured the unhappy boy, bestowing unto him a kind smile – a sight he’d not oft see, and thus a memory he’d clutch tight unto eternity, recalling it sweetly even as he’d sworn his heart a thing too cold to break again. 

“After all this time, you return to me once more. . .”

Wandering in the universe of his mind, the Sunyshorean walked on, absently peering at the stars in their unraveled splendour, twinkling like fading fireflies against the bleakness of Pasio’s night. Why had he been transported here, of all places, when he was on the cusp of creating his perfect, complete world? And why had Fate so cruelly placed /him/ amidst this unpleasant path? Were he one for useless sentimentality, Cyrus’d wager this peculiar Rotom’s presence and penchant for him were some strange effort on part of Providence to save his spirit from the flame of self-destruction he’d drawn perilously close to.

And then, there was the matter of that boy – Sophocles, of the Alola region. Shy and lonely, he presented a mirror unto Cyrus, and he recognized in the smaller youth a reflection of the Cyrus from long ago, a phantom rusted by the inevitable wear of time. No; a /fragmentation/ which he’d sought to seal in the darkness of yesterday, contemptuous as he was of that lonesome, pathetic boy who once believed in the power of bonds, soothing the spirit within his toy robot as he walked, talking on and on as the moon bestowed its lambent light ‘pon the then-inseparable pair, after having recovered the curious Pokemon from the town’s rubbish heap, swearing then they’d remain friends throughout their lives. . .

Just as before, Rotom’d arrived to him, with Sophocles in tow this time. This one belonged to a Unovan GYM Leader and model named Elesa, from what the rotund inventor’d explained. Normally, Cyrus’d not be one to entertain idle chatter, yet the boy this Rotom’d chosen as his play companion was intelligent beyond his years --- a worthy inventor, to be sure. They’d talked for what must have been hours, yet felt but the brevity of a moment to Cyrus, who’d lost both track of time and sight of the fact he was a wanted figure as per Pasio’s dictate (on what were in his opinion unfair grounds, as he’d commanded Palkia to attack those Team Break hooligans in self-defence, after his request for peaceful parting fell on deaf ears.) He’d risked his very freedom simply to discuss machinery and wondrous Rotom with a boy he in truth owed nothing to, yet the fact Sophocles’d not run from him or regarded him with scorn remained in Cyrus’ mind even after that ugly beachfront confrontation mere hours ago.

“The times we’re feeling sad and lonely are what make us appreciate the happy moments even more. . .” 

Sophocles’ voice rung with unprecedented clarity, tearing into the tormented man’s psyche as night crept on, unveiling the depths of its terror. An outbreak of loneliness, that was the reason he was so opposed to this world – to the nature of his very Self. Yet, he could see the veracity of Sophocles’ words, though he was yet too stubborn to admit the fact. Yes, he loathed this ugly, incomplete world. And saw beyond the horizon a miraculous New World, infinite in its perfection. But most of all, he /hated/ the inherent emptiness within himself. What he willed beneath the veneer of his pseudo-philosophical parlance was to be free of the hurt – craving for a sleep eternal, he was encased alone in darkness, amidst naught but the dying stars. . .

“That’s why you can hate this world, Cyrus.”

‘But is this world not an absurd one? We exist, only to vanish. Deluded humans think they are happy and safe, indulging in the folly of feeling, yet death banishes such foolishness forever. What, then, is the point of the endeavour, in a world full of strife? ‘

Cyrus shook, ice blue eyes transfixed upon the clouds shrouding the night, at once absent and focused as he delved deeper into the chaos of his interior. 

‘I never wished to be born. Even to the parents I respected and adored, my heart was just a tool to be used, merely part of a lifeless machine. I yearn to disconnect -- why should I be here?’ 

“Because you’ve experienced happy moments before!”

Ah, the roaring of the waves! 

The creamy taste and colour of lavender ice cream grazed the tip of his tongue as the briny, sea-kissed air swept the comely cyan of his spiked hair. A handsome boy, Cyrus gave a faint, yet unmistakably bemused smile as he clasped his grandpa’s hand, walking happily along the wooden promenade of Sunyshore’s boardwalk. Neon signs of variegated hues called forth to crowds of locals and tourists, promising everything from sentimental souvenirs to steep bargains (a visual invasion to be sure) – boisterous and lively, this was the landscape of a Sunyshore framed by Cyrus, as he longed to always remember it at that moment.

Normally, Sunyshore was a place of pain and apathy, yet seldom it’d live up to his name – chiefly, when Grandpa’d stop to visit. Usually, this meant an exciting excursion of some sort, whether to a museum or just the local boardwalk arcade. It was here Cyrus’d spend many pleasant afternoons, discussing everything from the mysteries of time and space to the “trick” required to manipulate the claw machine ‘just so,’ and allow it to dispense a prize at every play. Yes, Cyrus loved his grandpa more than anyone in the world (save Rotom, if Pokemon were counted, and he’d refuse to make a choice between the two.)

It was from him that Cyrus’ lifelong fascination with machines stemmed, and he preferred what the exterior world may deem an odd interest because these at once recalled his grandpa unto him when the two were apart (the elder lived not in overcrowded Sunyshore, but opted for a quiet home along the historically disputed territory that would later become the Battle Frontier), and allowed him to play with Rotom in a way that would not endanger him to its crackling jolts of electricity. The two’d even been introduced, and for a long time, Rotom’s existence would remain a familial secret between the boy and his beloved grandfather. . .

Yes, he’d had a taste of happiness in this world, however brief the illusion. 

“But it’s too late, Rotom. No matter how you haunt me, I shall not change.”

Standing on the edge of an impressive precipice (no doubt, one of Lear’s most ambitious projects in replicating the perilous wonders of the natural world), Cyrus cried out, the timbre of his voice as it echoed unto the mountains below more distraught than enraged. Occulted from prying eyes by a shroud of pseudo-volcanic smoke, Cyrus looked once more to the stars, as if to scry the heavens for a suitable answer to his dolorous dilemma. 

“I /cannot/ change. . .”

Rueful, he spoke thus unto no one, his voice trembling before falling silent. How far Rotom seemed from here, to he who was but a dead leaf echo of the boy the Pokemon must yet remember, hiding though he may be ‘neath that favourite and fictitious disguise of one who’d bring a New World Order. Was he truly a man unfeeling? Or was this but his latest clever delusion?

“The new world I desire is much greater than this one. /It has to be./”

Doubt coursed through his verbal pretense -- why should he question what he’d steadfast held true all these years? Yet, had he not once known a heart full of sun?

“That’s why I /must/ stay the course. . .”

Cyrus froze, standing ‘twixt the mercy of an extended hand and the primeval darkness of an emotional void which threatened to consume him whole; trapped in this complex equation, one shouldering a destiny harsher than death. . .

“Only then will I have a perfect, complete answer.”

At last, resplendent dawn dissipated the obfuscation of night as Cyrus emerged from his reflection, no longer one lost amidst a crumbling world of shadows. Breathing deep, he looked to the rising sun, a faint peace stirring in his thawing heart as he beheld the subtle grace of its yellowed glow. Paving the path to his true Self, he made his way to the zenith, the murmuring wind uttering unto him the name of that Pokemon from long ago, gently caressing his tired visage. 

“Yet worry not, Rotom. I shall do as you wish, and place my fate in the hands of this world, until then.”

Illuminated by the sun’s brilliant sheen, Cyrus descended from the mount, seeking Elesa’s Rotom, who accompanied Sophocles and Bettie. Hesitating, he observed the scene, maintaining his distance as the pair played hide-and-seek with Rotom, as he once had when he was a child. Could he truly face them? And did he deserve to be Sophocles’ friend, after what he’d done?

Cyrus stood idly, careful to conceal any trace of his presence from the group, though the melody of their carefree laughter reached him still. The aquamarine of his glum gaze met the field they’d chosen as a stage, and he couldn’t help but wonder if things would have turned differently for him had he a friend when he was young, as Sophocles, despite his shyness seemed surrounded by friendship and affection, things Cyrus was for the most part starved of. . .

Opting to retreat, should he otherwise taint the idyllic sight, the Sunyshorean turned to take his leave, halted only by the too-familiar buzzing which’d destroyed his cover. Elesa’s Rotom looked to him, grinning as broadly as the day they’d first met. 

As the day /they’d/ first met.

“Very well.”

A tear escaped Cyrus’ otherwise stoic visage as he addressed that Rotom, seeing in his jubilant eyes a facsimile of his old friend. Feeling, but for a second lost to the flow of time, as his boyhood self. 

“Let us play as we always have.”

Trembling, the former Galactic Boss stated, leaving behind a shed skin he hoped never to return to.


End file.
